


Slate...Fog...Flint...Silver

by annie_reckson



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-28
Updated: 2014-08-28
Packaged: 2018-02-15 02:16:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2211990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annie_reckson/pseuds/annie_reckson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the first time in his life, he’s particularly eager to leave a crime scene.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slate...Fog...Flint...Silver

**Author's Note:**

> This is for the Sherlock Rare Pair Bingo! for the prompt: Grey
> 
> I kinda went more for the _feeling_ of Grey rather than the actual color.

It was a bit funny that he'd never really noticed what a dismal city London actually was.

Of course, he was fully aware of the type of people inhabiting his city: those who crawled along its underbelly, those who pretended to be above the rabble as they dug into everyone else's pockets, and those who scoffed at the former while abdicating the latter. But that was his city and he was fully aware of the importance of all three, especially in his line of work.

And one would be foolish not to notice the stormy clouds that perpetually rolled in just above the tip of Big Ben, all at once perpetuating a threat of downpour and a promise to keep sunlight away from the city's pasty inhabitants.

Because everyone here is pasty. Pasty and cold and shuddered despite their actual skin colour and/or nationality. That is what London does to you. London, for all its beauty and breath, will never hesitate to capture you in its insularity and comfort you in its harshness.

And Sherlock is not exactly sure when he turned into a hideous, emoting teenager, but he hates it. Mostly for his inability to shake it.

Because there is a dead body in front of him that required his full attention. And out of the corner of his eye, he can see the Met’s finest trying their hardest to chat and go about their duties while keeping him in their peripheral. He can’t see Detective Inspector Hopkins or John, but he knows they’re standing close behind him, he can hear their muffled voices, and he can feel John’s worrying expression creasing into his forehead.

In John’s eyes, he probably does have cause for worry. After all, the last he’s aware of, they had just finished a particularly ~~lovely~~ \- interesting, kidnapping case that involved breaking into the London Zoo after-hours, among other pleasures. Sherlock had insisted on staying late with Lestrade to catalog all the evidence and tie up any loose ends. Then, late in the evening, Sherlock had angrily thrown himself into the apartment, changed into his customary post-case pajamas and dressing gown, and commissioned his usual sulk on the couch.

This time though, was different. And John wasn’t dense, it didn’t take him long to notice that Sherlock had turned his phone off, and kept it off, for the past five days. Not to mention the fact that he wasn’t checking his blog or accepting clients. Normally he’d be aching by Day 3 for anything to stimulate his overactive brain. John was, no doubt, used to fielding calls from Lestrade telling him to take Sherlock’s phone away so he’d quit bugging him for new cases.

But this time, Sherlock had turned his post-case adrenaline crash into a prolonged brooding session. There were no cases, no arguments with people online, not even any experiments in the apartment. Sherlock barely even acknowledged Mrs. Hudson when she decided to visit with tea or baked goods. So John had started out by just going to his clinic appointments as if everything were normal, even though it clearly wasn’t. And by Day 5 of waking up to see Sherlock Holmes in the same crumpled position on the couch that he’d left him in the night before, and starting to smell bad, John decided to take matters into his own hands.

Which is how Sherlock found himself - freshly showered and changed into his usual typical garb - crouched in an alleyway behind the National Gallery, staring at a corpse while John was no doubt spelling out his mental malaise to Detective Inspector Hopkins. Which, small graces, he’d never thought he’d be eager to see. Hopkins, that is. As much grief as he gave the young DI, he much preferred seeing his youthful face and brown hair rather than -

Okay, he had to focus. There was a job to do and possibly lives at stake. And a puzzle to solve, which was always the best part, but mostly the first two. Yet, whenever he stared at body lying crookedly on the pavement - _young male, early 20’s, recently shaven_ \- all he could really see was _grey_. Ashen-colored face denoting a few days of decay, washed out eyes, pale clothing, asphalt pavement, steel buildings, granite stones, omnipresent clouds, grey greygreygrey shitstupid anger rejectiongrey -

Sherlock forced himself to inhale slowly and closed his eyes to block out the stimuli all around him. After a few deep breaths, he opened his eyes and smiled when the only thing his eyes noticed was the fading red marks on the young man’s neck that had mostly been hidden by the ridiculous folded up collar of his shirt. He leaned closer and traced them with gloved hands, noticed the spots where the tool used had created lacerations. Stooping still closer, he sniffed the man’s neck and was pleased to recognize notes of jasmine, grapefruit, and vanilla

Smiling, he stood up and strode towards Hopkins and John, “Strangulation!”

Hopkins raised an eyebrow, “You sure? We noticed some blunt force trauma on the back of his head.”

Sherlock sneered, “And yet you called me anyway.”

“Actually-”

“The young man was strangled from behind with something thick but slightly sharp at the edges. Nothing like piano wire that would cause deep lacerations, but enough that the force would inadvertently create some. I would suggest investigating to see if he had a girlfriend, or possibly a recent ex. Most likely someone he either cheated on or he used to cheat on his former girlfriend with.”

John tilted his head, “Why a girlfriend?”

“Perfume notes still linger on the man’s neck. Most likely because the perfume was on the ribbon as well. You’ll have to, of course, verify, but I’m fairly certain that its Daisy by Marc Jacobs. Which is a bit feminine for a man.”

Hopkins sighed, “Alright, so we’re looking at a crime of passion then.”

Sherlock actually smirked, he may have forgotten how much he enjoyed this, “I’m sure you’re all aware of how vicious a motivator -”

He paused when the police car pulled up - sirens off - and all six feet of Detective Chief Inspector Greg Lestrade strode determinedly towards them. To everyone else, Lestrade probably looked as composed as usual on a crime scene, but Sherlock could see the aggressiveness dancing behind his dark eyes as he made a beeline for the consulting detective.

Hopkins seemed flustered by his presence, “Chief Inspector I assure you we have things under contr-”

“I’m not here to manage you, Hopkins. I need to have some words with Sherlock bloody Holmes here.”

John stood defensively, “Now Greg-”

Greg jabbed a finger at him, “Later, John.”

Which only made John stand ramrod straight, “What’s going on, Greg?”

“We’ll talk about it _later_ , John.” Greg nearly sneered, utilising his height to tower over the shorter man.

Which, fuck, seemed to work. And Sherlock would be lying if he said he didn’t find it a little bit attractive. Although his arousal shrank back some when he saw John step aside and let Greg continue his trek towards Sherlock. Without a word, Greg grabbed him by the elbow and dragged him into a connecting alleyway. Once they were out of earshot, Greg released him, gentler than Sherlock would have imagined, and looked at him with pleading eyes.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, Sherlock?”

This wasn’t a conversation he wanted to have, “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sherlock.” His chocolate-brown eyes were piercing now, “You can’t...you can’t just do what you did and then...”

Something in Lestrade’s words infuriate him, as if he is to blame for this, “And then what, Lestrade? I expressed my interest, you declined, I stepped away. Is that not what is expected of adults these days?” He hates Lestrade at this moment, because while laughing at a crime scene is fun even if it is unacceptable, crying at a crime scene is to be avoided at all costs.

“Sherlock...” And Christ, Sherlock will never get over the way Lestrade says his name, with such longing and need, that’s probably what caused him to get confused in the first place, “What on earth is going on in that head of yours?”

He jumps when Lestrade moves to lace their fingers together, but interlocks them without hesitation. Lestrade chuckles and pulls him closer until their faces are inches apart. From here, Sherlock can see that Lestrade’s pupils are dilated, that there’s worry written in the lines on his face, and that his mouth is quirking oddly.

Lestrade uses his free hand to cradle Sherlock’s face, “You never let me finish, Sherlock. You can’t wait until I’m exhausted from one of the most infuriating cases I’ve dealt with all year and...show me that you’re just as -”

The pause needles at his restraint, “‘Just as’ what, Lestrade? Just as impetuous as you imagined?”

“Just as interested as I am.”

Sherlock’s eyes widen, “...Excuse me?”

“At least that’s what I thought. But then you ran away and turned your bloody phone off, you insufferable, frustrating git. And I’ve been going over it in my head for days now trying to convince myself that it wasn’t just some sort of adrenaline-thing that you didn’t mean,” His eyes are pleading again, “Is that all it was, Sherlock? I need to know. You know I wouldn’t interrupt you while you’re working unless it was important.”

Every word he has to say is choked back. Because he’d been wrong, he’d been oh so very wrong. And that wasn’t a feeling he particularly liked. That night, in the evidence room, when he’d finally given in - and yes, part of it had absolutely been the adrenaline but that had really only been a catalyst - and grabbed Lestrade and kissed him like he’d wanted to since he’d first laid eyes on the infuriatingly brilliant man, he’d been crestfallen when he’d pulled back and Lestrade had looked, well, a lot of things but _pleased_ hadn’t been one of them. Perhaps _surprised_ would have been the best way to put it, but the look had been enough to make Sherlock hurriedly grab his coat and leave the Met as quickly as he could. And he’d decided to make himself scarce in order to avoid the what would inevitably be rejection from the one person he’d sincerely wanted since college.

But there was no rejection in Lestrade’s expression. In fact, he looked more afraid that Sherlock was going to be the one to reject _him_. As if Sherlock was about to say that he hadn’t meant it, that it wasn’t anything, that “everything else is transport”. All were very rational fears, Sherlock was a bit ashamed to say, he didn’t have this sort of reputation for nothing. But all of the worry in Lestrade’s face was completely unfounded, and Sherlock knew he needed to tell him that. Because if he could keep him, he desperately wanted to.

He took a deep breath and looked at Lestrade from under his lashes, “Do you remember the day you picked me up and shook consciousness back into me while I was lying in the street? On the tail end of the worst cocaine binge of my life?”

He can feel the shudder that goes through Lestrade, “Yes. I’d never seen someone so helpless yet haughty at the same time.”

“Ever since that day,” Sherlock ventures, hoping for the best, “When I opened my eyes and saw you, I knew that I wanted you. At the time it probably was the cocaine talking, but afterwards I got to know you and how brilliant and driven and interesting you were, well, are. You are so special to me Lestrade, so much more than I think you realise.”

Lestrade brushes a thumb over his cheekbone, “So why did you run?”

“The expression on your face was terrifying, all I could think was that I’d ruined it. So many years of restraint and I’d finally lost it and ruined it. I couldn’t face you after that, not and risk being told exactly what my mind was convincing me you were going to say.”

Lestrade just shakes his head and for a moment Sherlock is convinced that he’s going to step back and walk away. Instead, Lestrade surges forward, drawing a gasp out of Sherlock once their lips meet. And Lestrade is gentle, if not persistent, not exactly pressuring anything but still pushing Sherlock until his back is against the brick wall of the alley. Sherlock’s fingers trace the back of Lestrade’s head and scrape up into the silver strands he’s spent years wanting to touch. They were much softer than he’d hypothesised, and enabled him to pull Lestrade further forward, causing him to tilt his head for better access. Experimentally, he ran his tongue along the crease between Lestrade’s lips and smiled when he groaned appreciatively.

His smile faded when Lestrade tugged his head back, worried that might have been a step too far. But Lestrade looked...more than pleased. And his lips were nice and swollen; Sherlock didn’t want to be done with them just yet.

Lestrade sighed, “Can’t really be doing this in an alley, can we?” Before Sherlock can respond, Lestrade runs a hand through his unruly curls, “Finish up here and then meet me at my place alright?”

Suddenly, the skies over London seem less foreboding. The bricks in the surrounding buildings seem to flush with hazelnut, chiffon, and slate tones. And Sherlock realises instantly how incredibly cliche every thought going through his head really is, but he allows himself the guilty pleasure because right now he is busy staring into the warm hickory-brown irises that are naught but thin rings around the blown pupils staring back at him. But the worry is still there, still tucked in the wrinkles that are set in the skin around Lestrade’s eyes. And he wants, more than anything, to dispel that.

“Yes,” He lets out, breathlessly, “I’d umm...I’d really like that, please.”

Lestrade places one more chaste kiss, “Then I’ll see you in a bit, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Is all Sherlock can respond, he should be embarrassed but for some reason, isn’t.

Then Lestrade steps back, bites his lip, and walks away back to the patrol car. Sherlock, though, leans against the wall for a few more moments, running his hands over his face and trying to figure out exactly how the past few minutes transpired.

When he finally makes it back to the crime scene, where the body is finally being set up for transport to the morgue, there’s a minute spring in his step. Just a little bit of looseness that hadn’t been there before. He’s not ready to show exactly how much weight has been thrown off his shoulders, but he’s also unable to hide it.

And for the first time in his life, he’s particularly eager to leave a crime scene.


End file.
